


It's a Long Way Down

by theimpossibleimpala



Category: Supernatural, Supernatural AU
Genre: Addiction, Angst, Bisexual Castiel, Cas Loves Cats, Comfort/Care, Dealing with death(s) of loved ones, Dean & Charlie are platonic partners, Dean has his own company, Dean is kinda grumpy at everyone?, Depression/Anxiety struggles, F/F, F/M, Family Problems, Fluff, Gay Dean, Getting Better Together, Jo & Ellen run a tattoo parlour, Lots of drug use be warned, M/M, Mania/Paranoia, Mild smut?, Mostly marijuana and cocaine, Past Dean/Aaron, Past Meg/Cas, Past relationship crap, Punk!Dean, Swearing/Crude Language, Tattoos, Trouble With The Law, photographer!Castiel, tags are a WIP
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-08
Updated: 2016-04-09
Packaged: 2018-05-12 09:19:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 20,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5661067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theimpossibleimpala/pseuds/theimpossibleimpala
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean is skater, a punk, a by-the-book bad-boy. Castiel is photographer, and Dean swears the man has been taking secret pictures of him. A particularly chilly day at the nearby park ends with the two crashing into one another, and – well, you know the rest.</p><p>But do you? Because it's not actually that simple. Dean's family is falling apart, and Dean himself feels broken. And try as he might, drugs and drink won't cure him. Castiel has lost the woman who saved him... And he's not sure how to cope when he has no one else left. Who are they without the people they loved?</p><p>And can they find it in themselves... to love each other?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Half Pipe

**Author's Note:**

> So this might be shit or it might be great. I'm going to do short chapters, but lots of them. The more feedback or interested people I get, the more likely I am to update! This is just a fun side fic I wanna try out while writing my major fic Fade to Black. If this had crappy editing I'm sorry but it's all just a direct upload without me reading through it and perfecting every little thing so... ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

DEAN WOKE to a soft hand plucking at the hairs on his arm. A bar of light fell across the bedroom,   insisting he get up and start the day  the warm body beside him began humming, and flipped over, shaking the queen sized mattress. Birds were tweeting outside, no doubt bickering about wether or not they ought to go into hibernation or not. Outside, huge storm clouds covered the sky, dark and ominous, threatening rain for the people of Tyler, Washington.  _Fuck that,_ Dean thought in spite of the roll of thunder that practically shook the room,  _a little rain ain't gonna hurt me, dammit._

 _"_ _Dean,"_ Mumbled his friend groggily, "Do we gotta work today?"

Dean couldn't help but grin, turning over to face Charlie's back, "Yes we gotta work, if we don't get those designs finished for Crowley, he'll cut the deal."

Charlie looked at him, scowling, "Screw him, it's pouring out, we get to call in sick."

"It's rain," Dean chastised, "Not acid. And besides, we work from home."

"Dammit Dean why're you such a good boss? Can't you  _loose_ the bossy-britches for a hot-second and let me sleep?"

"The hell are you so pissy about, this morning?" Dean questioned, scooting to the foot of the bed and getting out with a plop. He shivered, shuffling over to the thermostat to heat their apartment up. The wood floors were freezing, as was everything else he touched.

"Dorothy kept me late at the shop last night," The redhead girl explained, "And no, we weren't snogging. She kept me there till two to just look after this one old cat that's gonna die soon."

"Who even says snogging?" Dean commented, banging open kitchen cupboards to fetch a plate and a box of pop tarts. He shoved to in the toaster, and leaned a giant the sink while they heated up.

"It's all the damn British sitcoms you got me watching!" Charlie accused, at last sitting up and stretching. She sat up, yanking a lose blanket over her shoulders as a cape to keep warm. She gets up with a groan, joining him in watching the toaster.

"Dorothy is a real sweetheart though," Dean smiles.

"Yeah," Charlie blushes, "And she's badass at rescuing animals too," She faces him, lighting up, "Last week there was this dog hit on the highway, and she said it was stranded in the middle of rush hour with three broken bones, lying there on the street, and no one even reported it for three hours!  _Three!_ Isn't that crazy! But the second the call came in, she zipped her ass over there and flipped a U-turn in the middle of Y-96 to save the poor guy!"

The poptarts poke up, and Dean collects them on a plate for the two to share. He raises any eyebrow at the pale, short, girl he calls his best friend, "She pulled a U-turn in the middle of rush hour on the busiest highway in the state? I don't think so. Not sure I trust this Dorothy chick anymore. You better stay away, driving like that?" Dean shook his head in mock disapproval, "She better go back to Kansas, huh?"

"Shut up, Dean," Charlie punched his shoulder with surprising force, "You're just jealous 'cus you haven't met your knight in shining-armor yet." 

She was kidding, but she was also right. Dean smiled back again, but could feel an empty hole is his chest gaping.

~

He had never understood how parents let their kids run wild throughout the skate park without supervision. Right then, there were three children running up the half pipes and leaping backwards, bound to fall and crack their skulls open. He scoffed at the mother sitting on a plastic green bench, not even watching her kids play as she stared at the screen of her phone.  _Typical, really._ He toed his skateboard up, flipping it into his hand, and tucked it to his side. He strutted down the leaf covered sidewalk, walking straight through a puddle that splashed up into his biker boots. He made sure to stomp loud, make his presence known, and took extra care when going by the mother to cast her a hard look.  

She didn't even glance up, which was both maddening and intriguing.  _Damn, people really need to get the fuck off those iPhones._

It took him three laps around the block until the family at last left, leaving the space open and welcoming. 

He wore a thick hoodie, with the name of some local indie rock band emblazoned on it in bold red and purple, his jeans were black, and not the best for skating since they were tight but it didn't matter to him all that much. He ran his tongue over his bottom lip, toying with one of the silver bulbs of his piercings. His father had flipped at Thanksgiving when he saw the shark bites Dean had permanently ‘disfigured’ his face with. It was just a good thing that John had been oblivious to the large range of tattoos dancing over Dean's chest, ribs, and back for as long as he was.

The skatepark itself wasn't all that fancy or exciting. There were several massive ramps, horizontal pipes for sliding across, and a huge cement tunnel about ten feet long with benches lining the inside. In theory it was built for kids changing into skates or storing backpacks and things, but in reality it's where teens hid to smoke cigarettes and weed, to drink and joke and get in fights. The walls of cavernous area were spray painted to death. Mostly with tags, but there were a few truly incredible murals decorating it. Surrounding the rink, was a large expanse of grass, now more mud than anything. And beyond that, and baseball field and dozens of tall pine trees with paved paths for pedestrians twisting through them over soft hills and a few steep slopes. Frisbee golf nets were scattered amongst the domesticated part of the woods, the chains on them a constant rattling in the distance. But not today. No, not today. As wet and freezing as everything was the wind was at a stand still, straight up refusing to blow the clouds away to give room for some light.

But apparently, that mom had been fed up and needed to let her kids blow off some steam. 

He was never having kids. 

  
Dean warmed up with a nosegrind over the curb of a ramp not intended for skating, followed by some mctwists on the quarter pipes and 360-degree flips of his board on the halfs. It wasn't till after his third boardslide over the piping next to the concrete steps that he noticed his audience. The photographer had returned.

The man had been coming to the park a couple times a week for the past month. At first, Dean thought they were a photographer for a newspaper or magazine, he'd even day dreamed about being interviewed by the guy about his scaring achievements, but to no avail. As far he could tell, they were just some random dude. No one that was important. Today, he was hovering near the playground, snapping shots of the swingset from various angles, and he even went down the talk slide a few times for god-knows what reason. Dean found himself watching the guy more intently than usual, appreciating their long black trenchcoat and weather-appropriate scarf and boots. Nothing turned him on more than a well dressed man. Not to mention, the dude was using a  _legit camera –_ not just some crappy phone that'd probably get lost or stolen or broken. 

Dean smirks at the memory of the few times the man has appeared to be taking pictures of Deab himself. Hey, he'd want pictures of him too!

He sits down on the edge of the half pipe, taking his skateboard and pushing it down hard so it swooped up the other side, and rolled back down to flat(ish) bottom of the pipe. Dean rested his feet on it, pushing them back and forth in boredom. His ass was freezing on the concrete, but he ignored and snuck another glance to the photographer, they were gone. He clicked his tongue, sorta bummed, and swept his gaze over the whole park twice just to be sure; no one. 

He got out his pack of cigarettes, slamming the brand new carton against his palm a few times to loosen the rolls up a bit. He cracked it open, ripping away the plastic and tucking the litter into his sweater's pocket. He took out a cigarette and groped for his silver lighter. Once the end was lit, he took a drag, a deep one, letting the smoke tickle his throat and sink into his stomach, before blowing it out. It drifted up, twisting softly, and at once he pulled at the cancer-stick again in anguish. He felt unnecessary anger breaching the dams he'd built, and flooding out. Another drag, and he imagined the smoke evaporating the frustration. 

A movement in the distance caught his attention. He ground his cig onto the sidewalk, squinting. The photographer was back. 

Dean stood up, collecting his board and examined the guy in the distance with caution. People, he had recently found out, we're not his strong point. In an absurd moment of panic, he ran over to the full pipe where the benches were installed, and lingered at the entrance to peek out.

They didn't have a camera with them all of a sudden, which made Dean uneasy. If they weren't here to take pictures, then why were they here at all? They were sipping a cup of coffee. Or tea, something hot at least; they were warning their hands on the mug. Two mugs. Were they meeting someone? They weren't watching him, which was a small relief, but they were walking closer to the cement tunnel where he was. Dean fiddled with his piercings again, before he could think better of it, he walked through the tunnel to the opposite opening and waited just out of it. He listened hard for footsteps of the man continuing his stroll, with no luck. He wasn't sure what his plan was, but he kind of was hoping to meet the guy and ask what the hell they had been doing here lately. Dean pushed his back against the outside walling, and paused.

What the hell was he doing? Why was he sneaking around like some PI? He should really just stop now. What does it matter that this guy's been spying on him the past weeks? Maybe the dude wasn't even doing that. Maybe he just came to the park to get a few photos and Dean happened to be in the general direction he was pointing the camera. It was possible, right? Dean sighed, turning his head and shutting his eyes. He was doing it again, being paranoid. The exact thing everyone left him for; his paranoia.

He shook his head, and stepped around the corner and through the entrance of the tunnel, ramming straight into someone.

Immediately, he felt hot liquid splash onto him and burn the tops of his hands, he dropped his skateboard, hissing a bit as the other man groaned at the impact as well.

“Shit. Ow. Sorry, man.” Dean apologised, looking up at the stranger.

For a half second, he could've sworn the sun had begun to shine; eyes the color of the summer sky were looking back at him, “I uh… Didn't mean to… Run into you.”

“It's fine,” The man said, his voice deeper and more gravelly than Dean would've thought, “I believe I was at as much fault as you. Are you alright? I seem to have spilled…?”

“Huh? Oh. Oh yeah, no, I'm cool. I'm good. It's icy out here anyway, I could use some warming up.”

“Right.” The slightly shorter man surveyed him. His chin was slightly dimpled, and his cheeks were covered with stubble. He had black hair, fluffy and soft-seeming. He was gorgeous from his sleek black boots all the way up to the soft wrinkles in his forehead. He was ageless. Dean would've guessed his age from anywhere between 22 to 40, and damn, did that increase the guy’s interest rate by about a dozen points.

“What do you say we warm up at my place?” Dean offers without thinking it through. Where's his paranoia now? What if the guys a serial killer?

“Pardon?”

“Umm… Or at like the coffee place a few blocks down?” Dean swallows nervously. He wasn't sure what he'd just launched himself into but he was sure it was nothing good. But what was that old saying? When life gives you lemons make lemonade… That's what he was doing – making some damned lemonade because he'd be an idiot to let this rockstar bump into his life and right back out of it again.

“I… Er, Do you think I'm someone else?” The man spits out, clearly puzzled.

“No. I mean, I don't think so. You're the photographer guy right?”

The guy blushed, glancing away and biting his lip. Dean's chest wrenched, he'd always been a sucker for humble guys, he found bashfulness a terribly attractive quality.

“Yes. I'm the ‘photographer guy’ – as you put it. I hadn't realised someone had noticed me.”

The man says that in a weird way. Not like he was he was trying to hide from onlookers to take secret photos, but like he wasn't used to people noticing him – period. How could people not, though?

“I tend to keep an eye out for muggers and gangsters, had one too many bad run-ins in my life to not keep up on my toes. But even if I didn't do that, how could I have missed my very own paparazzi?”

“I wasn't taking pictures of you.” The man bursts out, correcting Dean's implication.

“Right, and I'm a long-eared bunny rabbit. I saw you, I know what you were doing. It's all good, man,” He grinned, “If I had a camera I'd take pictures of me too.” He winked to further tease the guy in the long, dark trenchcoat – and to imply he was flirting and not just partaking in a friendly chat.

The other’s pupils widened, his mouth opening if only fractionally, and swallowed, “I think… I should be going.” He turned to leave back through the tunnel, tightening his grip on his mugs, and flinching.

“Hey, wait,” Dean spike gently, stretching out a hand to the guy’s upper arm, “Didn't mean to offend, I – I was joking.”

Dean felt his insides turn to stone, as his whole body tensed in fear of their response. His paranoia… The paranoia that had haunted him through life… Was less a fear of someone hurting him, and more a fear of him hurting someone else. And this – this awkward confrontation met with dislike from the opposite party – was exactly the sort of situation he dreaded.

“No, I know. Now is just… Not the best time.” And with that, the dark haired man shrugged Dean off and hustled away. Dean stared as he walked up the pathway to the main sidewalk, and to the left as he yanked up his collar. It had begun to drizzle, the threat of a downpour written in the darkening sky. Dean sighed, not in frustration, but in sadness. He'd been too direct, too personal – a rude ass, his ex-boyfriend would say.

He hadn't even caught the guy's name.


	2. Don't Die

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Refrences to Dean experiencing mania in the past. Mentions/brief conversation about cocaine.

Dean hadn't thought he was that frightening. Sure, the guy hadn't been expecting him, and sure – Dean was a bit up front about everything, and he made them spill their coffee, but  _still._ The look of pure terror on the other man's face was as if Dean were bloodied corpse brought to life. 

He tries not to think too much of f it as he retreats back to house, his mood put out after the unfortunate encounter. 

He's been trying for some time now to find someone new. A new boyfriend, or even just a friend, anything to fill the hole in his heart made by his ex. His name was Aaron Bass, they'd met in a diner. 

Dean had been in the middle of a business meeting, trying to win over some new potential clients as they flipped through his portfolio, and various others files of Charlie's and Ash's. It was a nice restaurant, not the sort with fried chicken and bad fries, but with steak and mashed potatoes, assorted vegetables, and dozens of fancy sandwiches and soups to pick from.  Dean had glanced up only to see a man with light brown hair, combed over in fluffy-pile, watching him with wide eyes. They gave a little wave, and after a baffled moment, Dean smiled and returned it. They had grinned, and once Dean's meeting was concluded (he got the client) he went to talk to the man. He successfully tripped on a table after accepting their phone umber, and managed to leave the establishment all in one piece. 

The next week, they went to movie. Then within the following months were dinners, hikes, picnics, bars, partys, and the like as Dean grew more and more fond of Aaron. But Dean, Dean was paranoid. 

About everything. 

Not only was he nervous Aaron wasn't actually that interested, he was also terrified about  _about every little thing._

_What if he hadn't kicked the front door? Why wasn't Charkie home, was she lost? Or hurt? When was the restaurant open? Should he check again? Should he triple check? What if the microwave exploded? No candles allowed in case they caught something on fire. Use flashlights at night! Don't forget to water the plants. Maybe we shouldn't have plants. Do they attract bugs?_

'What ifs', 'whys', and 'maybes' had become his obsession, growing more wild and unnecessary until he found himself calling Aaron five times between 2 and 5 am to check they still had plans for breakfast the next day. It hadn't been something Dean could control, it just crept up on him like itch desperately in need of  scratching. And so he asked thousands questions and got affirmations constantly, until it drive Aaron up the wall, and in the end, out his apartments door. 

 _"Your paranoid as fuck, Dean. I can't take this anymore. These constant questions – I can't even get a decent night's sleep without you waking me up! I'm done. I'm so done. Let someone else deal with your insanity,"_ And then Aaron  had stomped out the door, slamming it shut with a relieved sigh. Was Dean that bad?

When Charlie came home that day she'd found him drinking and crying, essentially falling apart, and she'd wrapped him in a blanket and brought him ice cream. They'd say on the bad, her holding him, and they watched an Indiana Jones marathon.

He was better now, he thought as he kicked off his black leather boots by the front door, rolling his skateboard to the corner where it hid under a rack of coats. He hadn't worried a whole lot lately, keeping his calls to Charlie at a minimum, and taking deep breaths whenever he felt mania threatening to strike. It's like, he knew he was crazy, but he he didn't really care enough to do anything about it. There were a lotta reasons he could come up with that explained why how've coud be so obsessive, yet they all sounded a lot more like excuses than anything else. He was nuts, like it or not, just not all the time. 

Upon getting home he through in a load of laundry, took out his mini gadges from his ears, and hopped in the shower. He let the hot water pour over him as it ran slightly green, rinsing out some of excess dye still lingering in his hair. He soaped up, soft hands running a bar acros his chest and legs, special shampoo bubbling up in his hair. He pondered a moment, then decidedly ran a hand over his hip bones and pelvis. He was playing music on a CD player plugged into the bathroom wall, the drums and bass ricocheting in a pleasant rythm against the tiles and mirrors.  With care, he braced a forearm against the wet wall, hot water streaming down his back, as his opposite hand fondled his junk. Charlie wasn't there, so he didn't have to worry about sound. 

He bit his lip, shutting his eyes and craning his neck upwards as he moved his hand faster and faster over his dick. Sliding a thumb over the head, he opened his mouth in a gasp, breathing heavily. He went a little rougher, trying to get some image in his head to improve the experience. Within seconds, a hasty thought of himself with the blue-eyed photographer showed up. Dean kissing him when they collided, Dean pushing them up against the full-pipe wall and touching them all over, hot kisses and hickies. Hands slipping down each other's pants... Dean moaned in the shower as he reached his climax, then, feeling at ease, he pumped a few more times then washed off completely. 

He got out, dried, and dressed in pyjamas – a perk of working from home – and sat down at his desk to get some stuff done. He switched on his laptop, hooked it up the large monitor, and went through about a thousand files and links until he got to his lates eight websites to do a routine check on. He was in charge of removing any bugs, improving stability, and ensuring the back-up systems were recording all new data. It was boring, but someone had to do it. 

Charlie came home at about four, clunking through the door and dropping her scarf and coat on the floor. She tromped into the kitchen,  grabbing the bread and a jar of peanut butter. He sipped his soda, setting it down and turning in his chair to watch his friend  

"Fucking Dory," She complained loudly, "Fucking Dory tricked me into helping her with walking day!"

Dean immediately burst out laughing, "Haha, did she now! She's great."

Charlie scowled as she came to perch on the back of the sofa, chewing angrily, "She knows I hate cleaning the damned animals. I stink! Here, smell!" She shoved a sleeve up in Dean's face and pushed her away, pushing his wheeled chair out of reach. 

"Fuck no! That reeks."

"Exactly. I begged her not to make me."

"Shoulda just stayed home and worked some over time," He suggested, mostly kidding.

She rolled her eyes, smiling though, "What did you do today?"

"Skated."

"With people?"

"No, but there were a few kids at first."

Charlie's eyebrows raised, "Really? After what happened last month?"

Dean shrugged, "Yeah. I guess the mom didn't know about it, or figured nothing would happen in the day."

"Well she's stupid," Charlie commented, setting her peanut-covered bread down, "You're stupid too."

"Why am I stupid!?" Dean asked, mildly offended. He leaned forward, stealing Charlie's bread and eating it. In return, she snatched his soda and downed the rest in a single gulp. True friendship in the wild.

"I wish you would stop hanging out with those 'buddies' of yours."

The room tensed, as their eyes flicked up to make contact. 

"Why the air-quotes around 'buddies'?"

Charlie's brow furrowed, "You know why. They are a shitty influence on you."

Dean sighed, rubbed a hand across his face and through his hair, and slouched in his chair, "Charlie they don't make me do anything bad."

 _"Ha!_ Really!?" She laughed without laughing, "You really believe that!?" She stood, strutting sround the living room until the couch separated them, "Dean. You drink more. You're out late. You smoke! A lot, too, by the way. And..." She shook her head, then seemed almost sad as she spoke again, "You think I wouldn't notice? That I wouldn't see? I know what you've been doing."

Dean shut his eyes, cringing a bit. He'd hoped to never have her find out, but of course she did. Of course, "Charlie..."

"Don't," She put a hand up, "Don't. I love you okay, and I will always be here, but don't give me half-assed excuses. Don't try and defend your shitty choices," Her confident pose faltered, " _Why are you snorting cocaine?_ "

He froze, glanced away, and worried his shark bits with his tongue. He didn't want to answer. How could he explain to her that it made him feel better? If only for a little bit? Sure it had nasty side effects, but a little when he felt especially down couldn't hurt anyone, right? Well, not really true – but still. He only used it a couple times a week, and it's not like it was costing him a fortune. He was safe about it. He used it at night, at home, and not with anyone else. All he asked for was a half-hour of blissful euphoria in which to drown in. 

"Dean, I get that you're having a rough time right now. What with Aaron, what happened last month, and all this pressure from work," She paused, "And with your father. But that doesn't mean you get to stop caring. Drugs aren't a game. They aren't for pleasure,  _you could die,"_  A tear slipped down her face _"And I don't want to ever come home to you dead."_

"Charlie..." Dean said, standing, "Charlie that will never happen. Never. I would never do that to you," He went to her, holding her shoulders. She was shaking, crying freely now, "I won't ever do that."

"Maybe not on purpose," She sniffled, putting her head on him, "But that doesn't mean it couldn't happen accidentally."

"I'm not going to die," He said again, rubbing her back and holding her. He felt like crap for hurting her like this, for making her so scared, "I'm not going to die. Not without you."

She peered up at him, and nodded, "Not without me," Dean wiped away some of her tears, "Promise me. Dean – promise."

"I promise."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chap in few days. Sorry for short updates :-/


	3. Blackstar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I love David Bowie, RIP Ziggy Stardust. I'm going to make Dean a lover of Bowie now, so just deal. Mourn with me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for homophobia/hate of tattoos, piercings, etc. Angry parent w/argument & throwing of an object (meant to hurt someone's own kid). Lots of swearing. A car crash. Self hate. Minir panic attack at the end. 
> 
> I apologise for typos in advance :-/

"Fuck yeah," Dean muttered as the new David Bowie album finished downloading onto his phone. He hooked up the massive speakers to his computer, and started the music. He pushed back in his roley chair, shut his eyes, and drifted backwards until he bumped into the couch. It was January 8th, the White Duke's birthday, and he'd just released his 25th album. 

He and Charlie had been dancing around each other the past few days, desperately avoiding arguments by being too kind; too helpful. It wasn't even because they were mad at one another, it was because she was concerned about him and Dean felt shitty about  _making_ her concerned. It just kept going in circles washing over him and filling him to the brim with guilt. On the plus side, all the big holiday orders they'd gotten through work were over with, no more friggin' holiday blogs to design or Christmas ads to plaster next to three thousand other Christmas ads. No more worrying about Dean's family, and what they thought of him and his 'life choices'. Whatever the fuck that meant.

~

Thanksgiving 2015 is when his parents saw all his piercings for the first time, normally, he took them out because his father would be pissed, but he'd sort of given up. His dad would hate what Dean was no matter what, so he figured, why not let him? He'd died his hair bright green, rolled up his sleeves to show off his tattoos,  _let him freak out,_  Dean had thought _,_ let _him see me as I am, let him hate me._ It had worked. Midway through their dinner of turkey, potatoes, veggies, stuffing and a dozen other traditional foods, his father slammed his fists on the table. He yelled, he questioned, he kept shaking his head, sighing. Dean's mother had stood up, going to John Winchester to try and calm him down, but nothing worked. 

Within an hour, the men were back at it. Dean hadn't wanted to defend himself, but he'd been left with no choice. They shouted, glares as sharp as knives. Half the time Dean was coldly amused; enjoying the disgusted look on John's face when Dean ripped off his shirt and showed his inked-up chest to his father. Everything burned. Everything hurt. His eyes his arms his face his chest his legs – his heart. John began spouting out bible verses, openly mocking and insisting Dean was  _"going to hell."_

 _"I did not have a child to have him become a sinning man,"_ The eldest Winchester spit out. He had been drinking champagne all night, to 'celebrate the holiday,' but now all it did was turn him into an angry alcoholic. He picked up the green bottle as Mary told him to stop, and  took a final swig from it. Dean held his ground, jutting out his chin and baring his teeth. 

 _"Do it,"_ Dean challenged, _"Throw it you fucking bastard."_

And John did, right at Dean's head, no hesitation. He ducked just in time, his mother screamed, and he turned and ran. He lept down the hallway and out the front door. He felt fucked-up for leaving his mom to deal with that monster, but he had to go. The dark outside felt claustrophobic, the stuffy Kansas air hotter than you'd expect. He hopped straight into his car, flipped on the headlights, and took off with  a scream of the engine. He pushed the gas hard, putting as much distance between him and his father as possible. He felt tears filling his eyes and falling. What was he doing? He was a coward. He was a damned coward, with nothing he could do to change it.

Dean drove all night, speeding down highways, refilling his gas tank whenever needed. He didn't feel tired for any of it, not once in the two days it took to get back to Washington. Entering his town of Tyler, he was growing panicked. _What if his father was following him? What if he busted into Dean's apartment and hurt him? Was his mother okay? Why was Dean such a terrible son? Why was Dean so fucking screwed up? Why had he ever doubted anything his father said, he was fucked – through and through. Dean was a fucked son-of-a-bitch._ He sped faster and faster the closer he got to home, unable to control the madness boiling inside him. He was off the freeway, cruising down backstreets and alleys at break-neck speed, feeling drunk with anger and self-hatred. 

He had broken his father's heart, crushed his dreams, stomped on his beliefs. Dean had turned out the exact opposite of how he'd been intended to. Dean was a mistake, a bad, bad, mistake. Street lights flashed by so fast he could have been sitting in a train; stop signs were ignored, if any people had been roaming at this time of night they would have been run over. The impala was roaring with power and over-use, it's parts and wires being nudged to their limit, and then the sleek, black, '67 model crashed head on with a tree. 

~

No one knew Dean better than Charlie. They'd met at a tattoo parlour, getting new ink at the same time. She was getting an owl, it's wings spread as it soared up her back. Hidden in it's feathers were plants, vegetables, other animals, and some quotes. He asked about it, curious, and she explained what it meant. 

"I'm a vegan geek," She smiled, crossing her legs and tilting her face up. She was laying stomach down on a table, arms crossed under her chin, "I want something to represent that. Ya' know, we don't need to animals anymore, or abuse them to get their milk or fur, we have evolved to the point where we can thrive independent of animal productions."

Dean chuckled, flinching only a little as his tattoo artist swiped an antibiotic cloth over his shoulder, "No need to convince me! I'm vegan too."

Charlie's face lit up, "Really! Well shit, and here I was assuming you were a carnivor! Got any rad recipes I should check out?"

Her face was priceless as Dean answered, "I can make some mean teriyaki tofu."

"Yeah!? Oh my god, we are so hanging out after this. How long will your tatt take? I have to do mine in two parts," She directed her voice at the man drawing out patterns on her back with a buzzing needle, "How long do I got?"

"Probably about 30 minutes," The guy responded pleasantly.  

"Your's should take about that long too," Dean's artist said before he could even ask.

"Thanks," Dean said, smiling st Charlie who could barely seem to contain herself, "Hey! Is that Princess Leia on a twenty-sided dice?"

She giggled, "I was drunk! It was comic-con!"

They hung out together a lot after that, doing everything from binge-watching to shows to kayaking in a nearby lake. As it turned out they were both super gay, and super into geek things. They were the perfect match. Six months into their friendship they decided to move in together, after all, they worked together now. Dean's company was essentially an online design program. He was an expert with computer programming and digital illustrations. When Charlie can along, he found out she was also tech-savvy, and together they formed a real business called "Geeks a Knockin'". They went straight to nearby stores and locally owned shops, and offered to create entirely unique websites, art, and audios for them 'all at one, low price'. They were so successful at those few places, Dean and Charkie were able to quit their regular jobs, and really focus on constructing their own company.

A friend named Ash joined up, he was the head of advertisements – posting both their own and ads for clients – wherever he had legal righ to. He was master of links and micro-scanning pages for viruses and minor errors that could lead to entire server crashes. This was all a year and a half ago, and while Geeks a Knockin' only offered statewide service, they made one hell of a living at it. Technically, Charlie and Dean could afford their own places now, but they couldn't bare the idea of moving away from one another. 

They were partners,  _queer platonic partners,_ to be exact. Which was basically a way of saying 'super best friends'. They lived together, ate together, sometimes slept in the same bed. They could raise a kid together if they wanted, they could even  _get married,_ if they felt so inclined. But no matter what, they weren't lovers. They didn't love each other like  _that._ Dean and her would not ever kiss, or have sex, or go on dates. That's what 'platonic partners' meant; a super, super, best friend who you would do practically anything with or for, but didn't have romantic or sexual desire towards. At least that how it was for them, some people may be 'best friends with benefits', but just being  _together_ through thick and thin, was their benefit. And anyway, they were both hella gay so it's not like they 'wanted' each other like that  _ever._

~

"Heya brother," Benny called to Dean when he approached the skate park, "Ain't seen you 'round for a few days. How are ya?"

Dean pulled his friend in for a man-hug, clapping him on the back, "I'm  good. You?"

"Just fine, just fine. Ruby's got some stuff for us," Benny gestures toward the full pipe, where about ten 'punks' loitered on the benches and floor. It was about ten at night, pitch black outside, and cold as hell, "She says it's fresh. The other boys have been at it for an hour already, good thing you showed up."

Dean huffed, unsurprised at his buddys. He knew he should t e there; smoking and drinking with a questionable crowd, but he couldn't avoid the temptation for any longer. He didn't really like Ruby, he didn't rust her at all, she was bound to get them all arrested at some point. But when that day came, he would me smart enough to not be there. He was a pro at avoiding the cops. While pot was legal in Washington, smoking it at a public park was not, but it wasn't like that stopped them. He ducked into the tunnel, everybody greeting him, pipes and rolled up smokes in their mouths. It stank face of Mary Jane, but Dean was so used to the sc my at this point he enjoyed it. He accepted a joint from a girl he didn't know the name of, and let Benny light it for him. 

He sat on the ground, pushing his skateboard back in forth, laughing at everyone's stories. He put on some Bowie, which everyone there loved. When the chorus played, they all sang along – singing extra loudly and doing their very best to sound terrible. 

"Rebel Rebel, you've torn your dress,  
Rebel Rebel, your face is a mess  
Rebel Rebel, how could they know?  
Hot tramp, I love you so!" 

The dark was only lit by phone screens and burning weed, they had to keep it down so neighbourhood residents wouldn't get pissed and call the police. They all quieted down, humming songs, some people whispering things to others. Benny sat right by Dean, and asked about Charlie and his job and everything. Then Benny shared his life updates (third date with some girl, tv crapping out, sister vacationing in Aruba). Dean felt light headed, and happy the way you might be after a few drinks. There had been bottles or bourbon passed around, but he hadn't taken a sip. And then he started feeling it. 

It started in his fingertips, they twitched and scratched and tapped things – then his eye lids began blinking uncontrollably, and his heart hammered like a woodpecker. Benny noticed almost immediately, even though they couldn't really see each other. Dean had dropped his joint, and his breathing quickened. Benny grabbed onto hisshoulderds, making them face one another, and murmured soft words,  _"It's alright. I'm right here. So are you. Just breathe. Deep breaths now, thas right, thas right. Hang in there brother, I'm right here. It's okay."_

_"Dean it will be okay, y_ _ou will be okay."_

_"You're real, man. I swear it's all real."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Queer-platonic partnership is a real thing! Check out this link if you wanna learn more about it: https://youtu.be/ZOVWR-qMIrU
> 
> Also I don't know if you can tell or not, but I'm basically just bull-shitting my way through all the stuff with Dean's business. I actually know next to nothing about online site creation and stuff, so sorry about that.
> 
> ALSO I DONT KNOW WHY 2 'END NOTES' SHOW UO AND I CANT FIGURE OUT HOW TO MAKE THE SECOND ONE GO AWAY.


	4. Superstition

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for cocaine use.

"Hey there, how can I help you?" Charlie said to the man approaching the counter. She was helping out at Dorothy's pet shop, which wasn't very busy in the early morning. 

"I'm looking for a cat," Said the man, his voice deeper and scratchier than she would've guessed. 

"What sort? Old? We got thousands of kittens... Black, white, you name it."

"Um... Black? Fluffy, if at all possible."

she nods, typing in 'black' as a key word to search the shop's catalogue. A dozen pictures pop up, with stats by each one. 

_Pastel: 7 y/o, left eye blind._

_Wings' Kittens: 3, 2 weeks old, all healthy._

_Jane Doe: 9 y/o, disfigured back paw._

She stops at the third option, reviewing the photo, then flipping the monitor around to show the man the cats, "It's touch-screen, go ahead and scroll through. If you find one or more you would like to meet in person, we can head back and the manager will show you them."

"Thank you," He bent over, long black coat swaying with the motion. He smiled at the screen. 

"What's your name?" Charlie quiered. 

"Uh, Clarence. I have another cat at home... And well, it needs company."

"What's the other like? It's important to make sure they won't butt heads when getting a second cat," Charlie informed him, not hating her not-actual job for a moment. 

"Oh she's just a month old, tiny little thing," He answered, then straightened back up, "I think I'd like to meet Jane Doe."

"You sure? She suffers from paw pains and could need surgery again later in life to help her foot."

"I at least want to meet her."

Charlie nodded, "Very well. Follow me."

She left her spot behind the counter to push open a heavy metal door, Clarence came through right behind, and they walked down a linoleum tiled floor. It stank of bleach and cat food, as though the pet store owner tried to mask the scent of animals from customers. They reached the end of the hall and it split to go either right or left, Charlie took the left passage and Cas gasped. Dozens of cat cages covered the walls, some were sleeping, some were clawing at the metal and meowing. There were so many, and he felt the intense need to buy every single one and take them all home. He walked in front of the redhead, eyes wide, long coat flaring out a bit behind him. He swept his gaze up and down, the cages from the floor to ceiling. If there was one positive thing, it was that the animals weren't cramped. They had plenty of space and soft flooring. 

"Please tell me you a humane society. That that the unwanted ones don't get killed."

"Yes, of course sir. No animal will ever be killed just because they're old or disabled, not on my bosses watch at least. And I assure you," Charlie put a hand on the distressed man's back, "They don't spend their whole lives in these cages. We let them out at least three times a week in a recreational room. There's a large outdoor facility for the dogs – these animal are well taken care of."

Cas turned to her, and she could swear she saw tears in his eyes, "Come on, Clarence, let's find Jane."

He nodded, and smiled softly once she pointed out the appropriate cage.

"Can I... Hold her?" 

Charlie grinned, she really liked this guy. She might just invite him to her place after all their business is over with, "Yes of course. Let me grab her."

"Didn't you say a manager was going to do this?"

Charlie chuckled, "Yeah right, like that lazy ass every does anything."

There's the sound of footsteps from down the corridor, and the pair whirl about to see brunette, tough looking woman striding towards them. 

"You talking shit about me to a customer, Charlie?"

"What! Me!?" She goofed in response, standing up and hugging the other girl, "I would never!"

"Right, sure, Char. You go work the desk. I got this."

Charlie frowned, but obeyed, giving Cas a wave and leaving. 

"Sorry about my girlfriend. She doesn't even really work here, but you know how it is," The woman opened her mouth again like she was surprised by what came out of it, "Sorry. I probably, shouldn't have said that. I'm not technically suppose to let her be here."

Cas shook his head, "No, it's fine. I promise. She is terribly sweet," They stared awkwardly a moment before Cas decided to act like an adult and introduce himself. Why did it feel like something was about to happen? Why was this such a strange visit? It seemed like he was talking to people at a party or a at a coffeehouse, not like he was a client and they some business women.

"I'm Clarence," He reached out for a handshake.

"Dorothy, nice to meet you." They shook, both gripping firmly, like they meant it. 

"Can I see the cat now?"

"Oh! Right, right, of course. I'm sorry... I just..." She trailed off, opening up the cage at last and stepping back let him through. 

Cas crouched down, eyeing the cat that stood calmly on all four paws. It's fur was wild, long and fluffy and spread every which way. It reminded him of his own hair in the morning. It's pupils dilated, nearly blacking out the yellow ring around them. Cas peeked behind her to see her foot, and indeed it was gimpy – twisted just a bit unnaturally. He held out the back of his hand for the cat to smell, knowing that this gesture seemed to always work well with dogs. The feline stared intently at him, and then, without breaking eye contact,  pointedly licked his hand. Twice. 

Dorothy laughed, "Well that's different. What are you? A cat whisperer?"

Cas couldn't bring himself to turn around, but replied with, "Cats have always been friendly with me. I don't know why, I hated them when I was younger."

"Yeah? Well what changed your mind?"

"My girlfriend loves them," He answered without thinking. Then he froze, dropping his hand and looking away from the cage, " _Loved._ Sorry, I um," Cas stood up suddenly, pressing a hand to his eye, "Sorry."

"Hey, it's okay. I'm sorry. Do you need a minute? You can always come back later," Dorothy told him gently. 

"No, no. I want her," He announced, "I want Jane. Um," He spun around anxiously, "Um, can I use the bathroom? I need..."

"Yes of course, it just down there, to the left, no hurry. We'll have Jane ready for you. Do you want to change her name?"

Cas took a deep breath, "Yeah, um. To Meg? M-E-G, Meg."

"Alright, sir. I'll let you be. You okay though? Do you need some water?"

Cas declined the offer, "No thank you. I'll be just a minute."

~

 "I can't. No, no — no, I told you why. Mom. Mom! He hates me! Yeah... Sure... Whatever."

Dean carved a circle into the floor with his paving. He was yanking on his hair, eyes squeezed shut, hating  every part of himself. He spoke into his phone again.  

"I know it's been a year. You think I don't remember? Mom,  _Dad blames me._ Really? Really? He does! We both know that!" Dean considered punching the wall in anger, but held back. "It's hard for you guys. I get it, okay? But I just was there. I'm busy with work and..."

He sighed, "Yeah I know it's a crappy excuse, Mom. Just let me be, why don't ya?" He regretted saying that at once, and apologised, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I understand... No, she doesn't know. Why? Ha! She doesn't need to carry more of my baggage, she deals with so much of my shit already."

His Mom said something, and he stopped walking, "You're okay though, right? Good. Get him help. Call... Call Bobby. He can smack some sense into him. Yeah. You sure?" He checked, biting his lip piercings, "Thanks Mom. Thank you for understanding. I love you too... Bye. And tell Dad... Tell Dad he can fight this. Yep, bye."

He hung up at last, throwing his phone across the room to his bed, and flopped down on the couch.

His and Charlie's apartment only had one bedroom, which was her's, so he slept in the living room on a bed off to one side. It wasn't a problem since the room was so large, and because the two friends were so close. Both their desks were also in here (piled full of multiple computer screens and boxes, and probably hundreds of wires and other various electrical equipment) on the opposite wall of the bed, and in the middle rested a sizeable couch, with a flatscreen tv in front of it. The front door was located at the intersection of the kitchen and living room, and the kitchen itself was large with a fancy refrigerator and lots of countertops.  He and Charlie had privately (with some other intimate parter) put those counters to good use at one point or another. 

Dean was stressed. The conversation with his mother had drained him, and all day he'd been interviewing new recruits for his company. He was opening up three new positions, he, Charlie and Ash were doing twice the amount of work they should be. This way, clients could be spread around and the work loads evened out. He'd found three people he really liked, and planned on calling them back to meet the rest of his partners. If Charlie and Ash liked the newbies, and they passed the call-back questions, then Joe Harvelle, Kevin Tran, and an older (sort of an asshole), fella who seemed hard-working, by the name of Frank Devereaux would be joining the company. 

Dean couldn't wait. 

But for now, he needed to relax. He needed to get the frustration and tenseness out of his system. He flicked his attention to the front door, checking it was locked so he'd have some warning if Charlie came home early. Then, he stood up and ran over to his small backpack he sometimes brought with him skating. He opened it, reaching down under the water bottle, extra socks, helmet, and a book. He yanked out a small plastic pouch, filled with something white and dusty. 

He thought for a minute about what Charle had said before, about being afraid he would do something stupid. Then he shooed the thought away, going to the coffee table and getting down on his ass in front of it. He poured a little bit of the powder out, blindly groping beneath the table for a coaster hiding on the rack below. He found one, and began scraping the cocaine into two, neat lines. He smiled at how well he did this, then fumbled with his money clip to get a crisp, 20 dollar bill out. He cleared his throat, getting ready, and rolled up the bill nice and tight. He pressed one nostril down, and leaned over the table above the first line of white. He sniffed hard, like you do when you have a runny nose, and the powder shot up the cylinder into his system. 

Carefully, he breathed out through his mouth so as not to screw up the process. He got the rest of that line up, and then switched nostrils. He always struggled with this one a bit, he was a righty, and his left side was sometimes neglected. But not today, he snorted it all up real good and fast, breathing through his mouth, and sniffing hard a few more times. At last he could chill out. Kind of. 

It was more like he could  _feel happy._ Which, was a good thing, he thought, because he normally didn't. In fact, lately the self-loathing had been increasing at an exponential rate and it was kinda scary. He felt shitty all day about himself, for a thousand reasons, but at the same time, no reason. 

He waited about ten minutes, and then stood up, sure enough, he felt different. He was enlightened, nothing seemed all that bad, he felt like he go out into the world and do  _anything._

_He felt freedom._

And so that's why he left. He'd never done that before, but he was filled with confidence; overflowing with swagger. So he left the apartment, body buzzing, smile on his face, and skateboarded all the way to Ruby's house. 

He wasn't sure why he went there, in fact, he hated Ruby with a burning passion, but she was  _awfully_ pretty. And she had the weed stash. And she was always down for a good time. So yeah, he went to Ruby's. 

~

Cas went into the men's bathroom, crying before he even opened the door. He went to the sink, bracing himself on it's edge, and looking down. Tears fell silently, and when he glimpsed himself in the mirror he was red coloured. He hated crying. He'd done it more in the past four weeks than in all his lifetime, and he wasn't sure he'd ever be the same again. He'd lost his girlfriend – the most beautiful, intelligent, and caring human being he'd ever had the pleasure to meet.  He'd loved her – he still loved her, and it was destroying him.

It would have been different had she been different. But Meg Masters had saved him from himself, and had she not he would have been lost to the world forever; he would have drowned in his hopelessness. But now, with her gone, what was he to do? Who would pull him out of the darkness when he fell back in? Had he already fallen? And if so, was there any chance he could recover?

When he got back to the main room, he paid the bill for the cat and smiled as he picked out a collar and some food. He was about to leave, portable kennel in hand, when a perky voice called his name. 

"Clarence! Hey, wait," Charlie sneaked out from behind the register and to his shoulder, smiling broadly, "Do wanna hang out some time? You seem like a really cool guy, and I'd love to get to know you more."

She's so happy and energetic Cas can't help but agree, and gives her his number. She typed it into her phone hastily and he was puzzled when she put a little pawprint emoji by his name. 

"What's that for?"

"The pawprint?"

"Yeah."

"I don't know, I give everybody one. And you like cats, so..." She shrugged. "I'll text you. Need a hand with getting that to your car?"

"No thank you, you are very kind."

"And you are very polite."

Castiel chuckled at that, and glanced away in embarrassment.

~

Dean regretted his choice to go to Ruby's the second he knocked on the door and she was only half dressed. But it was too late, and she pulled him inside, slamming the door, and leading him to her shitty little kitchen where they downed shots and talked smack about other people. He felt so high on his mighty horse that when she offered him a joint to accompany everything else he didn't even hesitate.

In fact, he hesitated even less when a half hour later she was straddling him on the couch.

 

He woke up later, puking his guts out and practically naked.

 

                       ~~~

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dean'll be okay.


	5. Liar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm changing this fic's title DON'T FREAK OUT the story itself isn't changing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, for the sake of this being easier to write, lets just say all the past 4 chapters have already happened, and now I've caught you up. So I'm writing in present tense from this point onward.
> 
> Warnings for a trip to a hospital due to drug/alchohol use.

WHEN CASTIEL at last gets home, he can't help but slump against the doorway and laugh in relief. He  _hates_ going outside of his apartment. He'll soldier through nightschool and his job, but other than that he just shuts himself away in his house in hope he won't ever have to leave it again. Social anxiety is not fun. He flips up a switch, four lamps flickering on and casting a bright white glow over the room. His carpets are a soft, cloudy blue colour, his tiny sofa deep cherry, all the furniture different types of wood and completely different shades of brown. He can't afford to be matching, and he's almost grateful for that because otherwise he would have spent way to much making everything look exactly the same. 

The cluttered, homey feel of the apartment is the only thing that makes him feel safe. 

He drops to his knees, carefully setting down the container his new cat is in. He unlatches the cage door, and eases it open. Nothing happens. He leans to peek inside, and spots a pile of fur sleeping in the center. He laughs, almost giggling, and thinking all the while  _same,_ because he is so very tired. He shifts back onto his feet, still crouching, and his other cat Masters comes trotting into the living room. 

"Hi there..." He hums, picking the kitty up by it scruff and holding it in his lap. It shuffles around, kept enclosed by Cas's arms, then it plops itself down and stares at Cas with huge, blue eyes. He tilts his head forward and kisses the cat on its forehead like it's a baby, and then takes it off of him. It runs away to some other part of the house, Castiel heading for the three-by-seven-foot kitchen that barely has enough space for a refrigerator in it. 

He reaches for the cat food below the sink, and fills up the new food bowl he bought. He sets it next to Meg's carrier along with some water, and at last Castiel allows himself to flop down on his couch and pull a blanket over him. He can only keep his apartment warmed to 60 degrees, any higher and his heating bill would be too expensive to pay. At least he has any heat at all. 

He lays still for a sold ten minutes before needing to pee, and then right after he comes back. This time he curls up in a ball, eyes closed, and the thoughts start to swim around him. 

 

_"Let's watch a movie, Cas."_

_Castiel shot a look at the dark haired women sitting across from him, his insides warm on Christmas Eve, "What kind of movie?"_

_"A Christmas movie."_

_Cas rolled his eyes, "I told you how I feel about any sort of holiday movie."_

_"That they're cheesy and cliché?" Meg laughed, "I know. But this ones different, I promise."_

_"Why do you want to watch it so badly?"_

_"I want to show you how much you mean to me."_

_Cas tilted his head in confusion at her. She sat on the couch next to him, they were smuggled together pretty closely; legs and arms intertwined, sipping delicious cider as the electric fireplace warned the room. Outside it was snowing, it was 2013, they'd moved in together a few months ago. This was their first real Christmas together. Neither had ever been happier._

_"What do you mean, Meg?"_

_"I want you to know why I call you Clarence."_

_She kissed him then, softly, quickly, then looked at him again hard, "Please can we watch it?"_

_Cas nodded, feeling a bit uneasy. He was scared by how important this was to her. He was afraid he wouldn't appreciate the film in the way she wanted. But he had to try, he loves her after all._

_"Okay, but you know I only have a VCR, so –"_

_"That's perfect. It's an old movie, Cas, black and white. A classic. I used to watch it with my mom –" Meg stopped. She'd gotten up, had been retrieving the cassette from a box. She never spoke about her family. They hadn't been the nicest people._

_"Hey, it's alright," Cas assured her, "It's alright. I'm going to make us some coffee, okay? And we can eat that coffee cake."_

_Meg agreed with a long sigh and a half smile._

_"Sounds good."_

_She rewound the movie while Cas got together their treat, then they smiled at each other and they both were happy again. The movie was amazing. It was happy and hopeful and filled with desperate, unique characters trying to do their best in a world where it was far to easy to do their worst. They laughed tearfully at the "Momma dollar" and  "Papa dollar" scene, and well... They cried during most of it. But Castiel really lost it when the angel Clarence saved George Bailey from killing himself; Cas understood why Meg called him that at last._

_In the last few moments of the movie, he was crying so hard he barely heard the final lines:_

_"Look, Daddy. Teacher says, every time a bell rings an angel gets his wings."_

_"That's right, that's right."_

_And then George Bailey looked up at the sky and said, "Attaboy, Clarence."_

_The screen went black, and credits started to roll, and then it turned salt and pepper, making strange shadows on the walls. Meg had fallen asleep on Cas. He pulled himself together, and kissed her on the head._

_"It's a wonderful life, Meg Masters, and I'm glad to be living it with you."_

 

Castiel wakes with a jolt, a loud, animal-like sound is filling his apartment. He leaps up the instant he realises it's one of his cats. He rushes into his bedroom, prepared to pull the older cat off of the younger one or vice-versa, but he stops the second he sees them. They are laying on his bed comforter, meowing and prodding at eachother with their noses. Meg is sitting with her tail tucked beneath her, and Masters has herself lying perpendicular and tickling the other's nose with her tail. They are playing and cuddling together. His cats are fine. Castiel grins widely in relief, temporarily forgetting the grief he felt about the Meg in his memories. 

~

Dean can't stop puking even after everything in his stomach is gone. He can barely breathe, barely see, barely  _move,_ for Christ's sake. His head is pounding, everything spinning; there's a ringing in his ears that he can't seem to escape from. His stomach is practically convulsing, his whole body shaking so bad he could be the human entity of an earthquake. Strangely, it all seems very far away like it's not happening to him. However, with every spasm of his back, every  disgusting bit of bile he spits out, he's brought closer to reality. 

He hasn't improved at all by the time he knows he needs to call someone. 

You would think he'd call Charlie, but he can't do that. He can't let her see him like this. Crawling on his knees, he finds his pants on the floor, phone bless-fully still in the back pocket. He gags again, an intense buzzing replacing the ringing he hears, and presses the number one on the speed dial. He manages to push the speaker button, as his body starts to feel like it's shutting down. His gut is twisting painfully, his brain throbbing, even his veins feel like they're burning.

 _"Hey brother,"_ Benny's voice answers cheerfully. 

"Benny!" Dean chokes out, his throat raw and abused. 

_"Dean! You alright man? What's going on?"_

"Benny, I need your –" Dean feels himself start crying, "I'm at Ruby's place. I think I'm... I think I'm sick. I need you to come get me. I... I'm –" Dean uncontrollably shudders; his body is giving up the fight, "I'm not doing so good."

His vision goes black.

 

When Dean wakes up again he's being pushed quickly through a flourescently lit hallway on a hard bed. He just about has a heart attack when he registers that his wrists and ankles are tied down. 

"Hey brotha. You awake? It's okay, these nice doctors are gonna fix you on up, okay?" Dean would recognise that accent anywhere. 

"Be...Benny?" He tries to twist his head to see, moving very slowly, but even if he could his sight is so blurred it wouldn't help at all. There's more voices fluttering all around, the sound of turning wheels and doors being opened and shut, but he can't focus on any of that. He just hears Benny. 

"It's me, man."

A woman's voice says, "We need to know what he's been intoxicated with."

She seems to know that Dean will only respond to his friend. 

"Um, sm-smoked some weed..." He   slurs out, vaguely aware of a nurse writing something on a clipboard and turning quickly around a corner. They're in a wider hallway now, and whoever's pushing the bed slows down. 

"Shots... Lots of... Vodka," Dean tries to remember what else he took, "Something else too... Um..."

It comes back to him, and he very suddenly, and very intensely, wants some cocaine. He wants to get a fix; the doctors and questions are too much, and he's needs something to make him feel good. He's also a little nervous about telling the nurse about the drug, it is, after all, illegal to have. If there's one upside, he doesn't have any physically  _on_ him. He can't be charged with possession, only with intoxication. If he plays his cards right, he won't get anything more than a card in his medical file. 

"Did a line of coke," He admits. He thinks he hears a disapproving grunt from Benny, but he can't be sure. 

"Alright, sir," The bed stops moving as it's parked in a small operating room with three big machines and lots of tubes and scanners decorating then. "We're going to pump your stomach – to remove any alchohol still digesting – and we're going to take several blood samples to get a read on how high your toxication levels are."

The women talking is tall, dark skinned, and absolutely gorgeous. Long, curly hair, dark lashes, well-defined eyebrows. Not to mention her aggressive, yet somehow soothing tone. 

"Why'd you tie me down?" Dean asks, interrupting.

"You were flailing, and... Your body was trying to get all the drugs out of you, which involved a lot of uncontrollable convulsing."

"Oh." Is all he says back. 

"We can untie you now, I'm going to hook you up to this machine which will tell us your heart rate and temperature."

She shouts a few directions to some other nurses, and gets to work with him. Benny sits quietly on a chair in the corner, not speaking a word. Dean's bracing himself for a chewing out from the other man the second they have a minute alone. The blood tests come back after an hour of waiting in a hot, bright room with only beeping systems to keep anyone company. Benny still hadn't said anything. 

"Your blood has very high traces of cocaethylene compound in it, this was caused by combing alchohol and cocaine," His doctor – who Dean now knows is Dr. Reynolds – explains formally, "This can put extreme pressure on your heart; increasing heart rate and straining it. You're lucky you only took as much cocaine as you did, otherwise you would have been at risk for a heart attack."

Dean doesn't reply to her. She sits down on the the rolly-scooty-doctor-chair and pushes it right up beside him, making hard eye contact. 

"Mr. Winchester, I don't know how much you know about the drugs you use, but I'd be very careful in the future. Based on your samples, you've probably only been using a few months. Coke is very easy to become addicted to, and if you continue you to use it this way there is every chance in the world that you  _will_ have a heart attack," Dean holds his breath, intimidated, "You are 32 years old Dean, you're too young to die."

Dr. Reynolds stands, and starts to head for the door, "Think about that." 

She leaves, and Benny takes the opportunity to whistle. 

"Phewwwieeee, brother, watch out for her. Hot damn."

Dean laughs, which only hurts a little. He's hooked up to not one, but  _two_ IVs. They're pumping him full of something to dilute the drugs and clean them out, as well as some other thing to stabilise his blood and blah blah blah... He doesn't remember all the fancy doctor lingo well enough to go into detail. 

"Dean, I don't know what happened to you, but I swear to tha Lord I thought you weren't gonna make it when I showed up to Ruby's." Benny sighs, coming over to sit on the doctors stool at his side. "There was vomit all over the damn place, blood in it too. I nearly puked myself it was so disgusting... I cleaned it all up though. You owe me one Dean, big time."

"Holy shit, Benny," Dean let air out through his teeth, shocked at how far his friend went for his sake, "I do. Wow. Thank you, Benny... Thank you."

"You're welcome."

There's silence for a long while. They flip on the news, Dean drinks some water. Benny buys some chips and a cookie. They're halfway through some rerun of Full House when one of them talks again.

"Did you fuck Ruby?"

Dean winces, "I think... I mean, I was pretty damn hammered, but yeah. I think so."

"Well, yeah you were hammered! Christ, Dean..." Benny gets up, pacing at the foot of his bed angrily, "God. You're better than that, man. You don't even dig chicks! Why'd you sleep with her?"

Dean almost has the audacity to shrug, "I was wasted as shit, man. I don't even remember it, I was so high. I know I fucked up. Hell," Dean shakes his head, "Hell  _I am_ fucked up –"

"Don't make excuses, brotha." Benny chastises in irritation, "Just don't. I don't give a damn how high you were, man! All I know know is that it's a  _long damn way back down and you've only just crested the peak,_ so you better hope it's one smooth-ass slope back to earth 'cus otherwise you're fucked man. Real fucked."

Benny stares at Dean like he's supposed to say something. Like he's supposed to apologise, or promise, or have some 'real' reason for all the crap he's done but – Dean doesn't. 

 

He's got nothing.

 

—•—


	6. Whoops

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Accidents don't just happen accidentally...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, there's an update this quickly! I can't believe it either, trust me. I just couldn't wait to write this chapter.

CASTIEL FOCUSED on the plastic canister in his memory once more, frowning at the imaginary sloshing sound the wash liquid made around the roll of film he'd been developing that morning. 

He went to a private art highschool, one filled with rich know-it-alls that thought they had 'too much talent' to go to a public school. Cas had gotten in on a whim, he'd been chosen from his group home to take a year at the school. It was a all for posterity and publicity, but then when Cas showed 'incredible potential', the school let him complete his four years there. They had been both the best a worst years of his life. 

He took photography classes, becoming obsessed with film photography and the process of creating a negative image, then a positive; enlarging it and even doing adventurous things like doubling it up, or tricking the camera. It had been tedious work, with sometimes devastating results when the film turned up completely blank – but he'd enjoyed it. So much so that when he got job, and saved up money, he was able to start setting up his own personal darkroom, right in his apartment. 

Which was all well and good, except extremely expensive and honestly he could never make any money from it. He isn't that good. Black and white photography has long since fallen out of fashion, but he'd made peace with it being his own, weird hobby. Meg had appreciated it. 

Yeaterday, not long after he'd gotten home with his new cat, the shop girl, Charlie, had shot him a very enthusiastic text message. 

_509-676-9224: Hey there! This is Charlie from the cat shop. I just wanted to check that this is Clarence? And if it is, I was wondering if you'd like to come over to my apartment and possibly battle me in a game of cat-themed monopoly?_

Cas had stared at the message for a long while, before typing out a quick acceptance message before he could change his mind. She'd replied with her address, and a suggestion he bring some music he liked to play whilst they played the game for three hours. 

And now Castiel stood – heart in throat, stomach on the pavement – in the middle of the parking lot in front of Charlie's apartment building. It was a tall, blue, slender place. Reaching maybe five stories high with large windows and some balconies. It was one of the dozen identical buildings on the block, all coming in various colours. It was a classy place to live, and Cas wondered how she could afford to be right in the middle of town when she worked – or rather  _didn't,_ he reminded himself – in a pet shop. She must not live alone. 

He loiters outside the place a while longer, hoping to get some apologetic text that he should come another time. It's been so long since he's made friends he doesn't know where to start. He knows he shouldn't launch into the tale about his long, orphaned childhood (that always had a way of making people pity him, which he hates), yet nothing in recent life was all that compelling. He  _certainly_ could not tell Charlie that his girlfriend died, just a month ago, right before their three-year anniversary. 

He could talk about the classes he takes, and his job. And his cats. And maybe his picture-taking if it really came down to it. 

But not about anything else.

Nothing about his  _personal_ self. 

At long last Cas is able to gather up his marbles, and strides over to the apartment entrance. Charlie had sent him the code to get in and he enters it now hastily, with one finger, and screws up. Twice. He sort of terrified. Not of her, but of how he could mess this up. He's only here today because it's not good when he's alone. 

_"Never be alone, Clarence..."_

Meg had told him that once. 

He takes the stairs up, she's only on the third floor, so it's not long before he's reached the landing. He slides through the door and tentatively scans every door panel for the numbers 669. There's long spaces between each doorway – they must be big places. He doesn't want to seem like a lurking perv, so he knocks once he's sure it's the right place. He can hear someone talking on the phone through the wood. He studies his shoes, suddenly convincing himself this is the wrong place and that he's about to have a very awkward interaction with some old woman. 

The door opens inwards, and there stands Charlie. 

Her eyes visibly enlarge, and she gapes. She just about drops the phone in her hand when he tries to say hello. 

"He–"

 _"Oh my god! Clarence!"_ She practically shouts before clamping a hand over mouth. "Oh my god! I completely forgot I invited you over. Come in! Please, come in."

Cas opens his mouth to object, but she yanks him in by the sleeve and shuts the door behind him. 

"I'm so sorry the place is such a mess. I – I've been trying to find my roommate for the past twelve hours... He went out sometime yesterday when I wasn't home... And he hasn't texted me or returned any of my calls..." She paces around her living room, leaving Castiel by the shoe rack, unsure if he can sit down. 

"Does this happen often?" He asks, reluctantly taking some initiative and setting down his small bag of CDs and the few smacks he brought. 

"No. Well, kinda, but not like this..." Charlie rubs at her face. Her hair is yanked into a bun, tons of strands of red spilling out around her ears. 

"Where does he usually go?"

She shrugs, "One-night stands... Hanging out with friends... Except..." Her forehead creases in worry, "He  _always_ answers. Always. He knows how worried I get. I'm just so afraid that he's going to ov –" She stops herself abruptly, as if forgetting she has a sort-of stranger as a listener. 

"Charlie," Cas begins, "If there's anything I can do to help, anything at all, let me know."

Only Cas doesn't want to help at all. In fact, if it wasn't considered rude to run away in the middle of a conversation, he would. What she's going through – the searching, the phone calls, the uncertainty – he went through six weeks ago when Meg didn't come home. And when his search ended, it was because he'd found out she had died. 

"What are you afraid of happening?" He questions gently anyway. Maybe talking will help her stay strong. 

She stares at him, and bursts into tears.

Cas knows what do when people cry. 

He sprints around the sofa to her, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her head in. She sniffs and cries onto his shoulder as he runs a strong hand along her back, pushing into her as she releases her woes. She breathes in chopped-up gasps, stuttering out words, "He does – does drugs... And I'm just so, so,  _scared_ he's going to die. I'm –" She chokes on her words, "If he overdoses, I'll never be able to forgive myself. I'm supposed to  _look out for him. He's my best friend. I can't fail him."_

"Shhh....." Cas soothes, rocking them back and forth, "Shhh... It's okay. We'll find him, Charlie. We'll find him..."

~  _(One day later...)_

"Your levels are stabilised, your circulatory system has been flushed out... You are –" Dr. Reynolds checks something off on her computer before offering a warm smile in Dean's direction, "You are free to go. You can be released at the desk to right in the hall."

"Thank you. Is there anything I should do at home to... I don't know – help?"

She quirks an eyebrow, "Quit. It's that simple."

Benny snickers, and Dean throws him a glare. 

"You have an hour before you have to clear out of this room," The doctor starts to leave, "Good luck, Dean. I hope to _not_  see you back here. 

Dean smiles, then she's gone. 

"Why the hell am I your emergency contact, man?" Benny demands. He pushes himself off of the wall, wandering in front of Dean's bed. 

"You're dependable, trustworthy, and..." Dean shrugs, "And you won't judge me even if you act like you will."

Benny huffs, "Alright. Alright... Well... Let's get you home?"

"Fuck yeah." Dean leaps up, throws on his normal clothes, and then abandons the small hospital room. 

Check-out seems to be pretty straightforward. Dean has to sign some insurance papers, and then he's home free. He takes the clipboard the receptionist hands him, and sits down to go through the questionnaire. It's all the normal stuff; age, weight, height, any major past health concerns... And then Dean realises there's a problem. 

The next section of the form asks to him to specify why he was admitted into the hospital. He can't very well lie about it, and even if he tried the insurance company has access to his hospital records if they're needed for confirmation. But he can't scribble down " _Was high as heaven and ridin' the booze-coke-weed combo,"_ down as his answer. He's not going to be covered. His payment is gonna be out-of-pocket no matter what. 

"Well that blows." Dean announces to himself in annoyance. 

"What does, brotha? The wind?" Benny remarks sarcastically. 

"No. My trip isn't going to be covered. I'll have to pay for all that stuff they did with my own money."

 Benny riffles through a magazine in disinterest. 

"It's over 40 hundred dollars, man." Dean states with more force. 

Benny sets the tabloid down on his lap, opened to the gossip pages. He puts his hands together, interlocking his fingers and frowning at Dean. 

"What did ya think was gonna happen? Brotha, you were an idiot the other day, a complete idiot. You've been in this place for 1 and half days... It serves you just about right to have to pay for this."

Dean blinks. 

"Why're you so mad at me?"

He cringes for sounding like a needy child, but he can't take Benny treating him this way. 

Benny tosses the magazine aside, and stands, crossing his arms. 

"Because I  _care about you,_ dammit! You think Charlie's the only who's probably losing her shit right now!? I worry, man! About you, about what you're doing to yourself..." He trails off, sighing, "The worst part is I don't even know why. You were fine a year ago. I mean, yeah, you smoked weed but that's not gonna kill anybody. What's making you like this?"

Dean's at a loss for words. There's a massive lump in his throat that he tries to swallow several times, but he can't. He's so sorry for everything. He can't believe he thought Benny wouldn't get upset, or yell at him. Well, he knew that he'd be pissed about the Ruby thing – but about the drugs? He hadn't thought so. 

He was wrong. 

And he is so sorry for it. 

~

Cas stayed with Charlie all evening, and ended up spending the night as she flitted through her apartment manically. She called everyone she knew at least twice, and cursed more than Cas had in his whole 28 years. She left the house several times to search the nearby park, and drive around town, and Cas came with her. 

It ended up being his job to make sure she didn't try and drive and cry, and that she didn't yell too rudely at too many people. She ranted about her roommate; saying "Dean this" and "Dean that" and soon Cas was painfully aware that he knew far more about a complete stranger than he should ever know. 

Somehow this was okay with him. 

_"He's a grown man, he can take care of himself."_

_"That's just it; he can't!"_

When Cas finally dragged her back home, she told him to sleep on the bed in the living room. He hadn't thought twice about it, and now he lay there in the early hours of dawn realising that he was sleeping in the roommates bed. 

_Dean's bed._

It's full of squishy pillows, and dressed in warm, flannel sheets. And it smells good. Really good. He supposes he would have thought it'd smell like smoke; based on all the stuff Charlie has said – except it doesn't. Not at all. 

It's musky and earthy, with hints of cologne and deodorant... Mixed with something like cinnamon. It's intoxicating. And it's not until Cas is burying his face in a stranger's pillow, taking deep breaths, that he comes back down to the planet and thinks he's a massive freak for doing it. It just... It just smells  _so good._

That's when he hears the front door unlocking. The feeling that he shouldn't be here rushes into him aggressively. He's not sure what to do; on the one hand, he could leap out of the bed and quickly wake Charlie up, on the other, he could make a run for it down the fire escape. His heart is pounding in his chest as the door goes  _click, click, clunk –_ and the door handle starts turning. He's near positive it's going to be Dean, and it's too late for Cas to get up now. He sucks in a breath, panicking. 

What'll Dean think of some dude sleeping in his bed, sniffing his sheets all night? Cas wants to be anywhere but here. Anywhere. Time slows down as the door opens a few centimetres. The fingers of a hand curl around the edge...

Castiel scoots as close to the wall-side of the bed as he can. He shoves the huge comforter between him and the front door, leaving a small gap for him to peek through. 

Whoever it is hasn't come in yet, but he can hear the deep rumbling of voices in the hallway.  _Oh god... What's he going to say? How is he going to explain this? Will Dean laugh it off? Or will he get defensive and flip out?_ Cas squeezes his eyes shut, maybe if he focuses hard enough he'll just dissapear. Or maybe if he pretends to be asleep he won't be blamed for anything. He could just hide here until Charlie comes out... 

A half-second later, Cas's prayers are answered. 

"Dean!?" Charlie squeaks, the sound of scurrying feet on hardwood bringing great relief to the curled-up Cas. 

"Heya Charlie..." Dean's voice sounds weak... Sad, too. 

There's silence, and Cas doesn't even breathe. 

"You look shitty."

Dean laughs. It's louder than it should be. Desperate, scared, pleading. 

"Where the hell have you been?" She whispers in a deathly quiet voice.

There's more silence. 

"Answer me, goddammit!" She shouts. 

Cas presses a palm to his face, trying to block out the private moment he's witnessing. 

There's the sound of Dean clearing his throat, and moving around a bit, shutting the front door. Charlie sighs, and he swallows again. Cas bites his lip. 

"I was..."  A long pause, "I was in the hospital."

Castiel wimpers sadly before he can stop himself. Hearing the word 'hospital' brings back a dozen terrible memories forever seared into his brain. He flinches hard, realising his mistake too late. 

"Is someone there?" Dean asks, loudly and surprised. Cas tenses up, not daring to look. 

"Oh, god!" He hears Charlie exclaim. Thank goodness, she can save him from this nightmare. She runs over to him, apologising on the way as Cas slowly sits up, still petrified.

"Clarence! Jesus Christ! Why didn't you say something!? I keep... Jesus, I'm a terrible friend... I keep forgetting you! I'm so sorry!" She's sitting on the bed on her knees. He can tell she feels horrible about it.

As he straightens his back he gives her a soft smile, she's blocking his view to her roommate, and so he just says to her, "It's alright, Charlie. It's all forgiven. What's important is that you found Dean, and that he's –"

Castiel stops. His tongue is dry as the dessert, his jaw locked open. Dean has just stepped into his line of sight.

Charlie gives him a weird look, and turns her head to see Dean staring back at Cas. 

"Umm..." She mumbles, confused.

Dean's eyes are green. So intensely so that Cas can tell from across the room. Dean is also pale, slouching, and sickly looking. His hair is purple, but only just. He has two lip piercings above his chin, and Cas can see the swirl of a black tattoo on his exposed collarbone.

"Your name is Clarence?" Dean shatters the stillness, not breaking their gaze.

"No, it's... It's..." Cas's mind is blank. He is so damn lost in a man he doesn't know it's sort of surreal.

"It's Castiel."

Dean's expression doesn't change from the shocked beauty on his face when he says;

"So, Cas then."

"Yeah..." Castiel agrees barely even registering the words... "Cas."

 

—•—

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It would mean the world to me if you let me know what you look for in a fics like this...
> 
> Also! Ideas for Dean's tattoos?? I want them to be meaningful and artsy, but I need some suggestions! Any thoughts you have regarding this will be immensely appreciated. 
> 
> :)


	7. Hello There

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean meets Cas. Officially.

DEAN WOULD LIKE to make some cocky remark or flirt a little bit, except he is way too tired for anything more than lying down and sleeping. It's less weird than it could be; some stranger in his bed. In fact, if he squints and concentrates hard enough he can pretend he woke up there, next to Cas, and his whole hospital trip was some fucked up nightmare. Only he didn't, and it wasn't, and somewhat unfortunately he is still existing and having to push through the day and  fight through his life. 

Charlie gets back off the bed, and Dean's gaze meets her's.

"Do you two know each other?" She asks, visibly puzzled. 

"No!" Cas and Dean reply simultaneously, attention shifting to her. 

Of course that's not anywhere near convincing and she keeps inspecting them, just  _waiting_ to see who's going to snap first. It's almost funny with the spunky redhead in the center of the living room, hands on hips, and glaring like she's being left out of some private joke. Only it's not all that funny, because Dean just got home from almost  _dying_ and she has been searching for him for who knows how long, _and_ he has no idea how Cas fits into any of this all. In fact,  _what the hell is he doing here?_

"What? Did you guys have a one-night-stand? Meet in a dark alley and have a snog? Were you chatting online and exchanging pics with dirty messages?"

Dean scowls, "Why are all of your assumptions so sexual?"

Charlie shrugs, pissed off at them both, "Well then help me out."

"Um. Well, I crashed into him the other day and he spilled coffee on me and I failed at asking him out and, um," Dean pauses, the words coming out too jumbled. "And that was it."

She turns her hawk-eyed gaze to Cas, searching for affirmation. "Is this true?"

"Yes. But I had no idea that  _he_ was your roommate."

"I sure hope you didn't, 'cus otherwise that means you would've been spying on us and that's creepy as hell," Charlie relaxes a bit. 

"Um..." Cas says after a moment, deftly avoiding Dean's looks, "I think I should be going  I've intruded on personal matters."

The man struggles to get out of Dean's many-pillowed bed. He smiles bashfully, fixing the sheets a little, and goes over to where his shoes rest by the couch. He's about to leave, pulling on his long black coat, when Dean speaks up.

"Hey there," Dean flashes a quick grin. "Now that you've slept in my bed without me in it... Would you get that coffee with me some time?"

Dean thinks he hears Charlie snort, but right now he really doesn't give a fuck because he is so attuned to  Castiel. The gorgeous, ageless, photographer man that  _slept in his bed._ Cas tilts his head slightly, a crease forming on his brow.

"I... I appreciate the offer, Dean, but I don't think I can do that," He swallows, like it was hard for him to say. But Dean thinks he got the point across pretty damn clearly. "I'm sorry."

Dean does his best to play the rejection off, like its no biggy. "Hey, no, it's fine. I get it. I'm a druggy and your Mr. Good over there," Cas opens his mouth, as if to correct Dean. "Nah, save it. It's all good. Bye Cas."

Castiel unfreezes, gives a half-wave to Charlie, and exits the apartment.

Charlie smacks the side of his head the instant they're alone, "Jesus Christ, Dean! I can't believe you! I  _told_ you to be careful! I  _told_ you to stop using! And then what do you do!?" She shouts, arms up in the air. "You go and almost  _fucking die."_

"Charlie... I'm sorry... I didn't mean to I just –"

"No," She puts a firm hand up. "No you don't get to do that. No excuses. No apologies. You made the choice to get so wasted you almost died. You chose to ignore everything I said, I can't... I can't deal with this right now." 

She glares at him, and is suddenly leaving the apartment. She's still in her pyjamas, yet she just grabs her keys and a sweater, throwing on her boots, and she's gone. Dean's heart is hammering, and he can feel the need to  _use_ surging up in his chest. He takes some panicky breaths, squeezing his eyes shut and collapsing on his bed in the corner. He screwed up really, really badly. He can't fix it. He can't fix himself. 

He lies down, and presses his face into the blankets. It smells weird. Oh, right. It smells like that guy. Cas. Dean can't get him out of his head. He sits bolt right up, scanning the room as a thought strikes him. He leaps up, running into Charlie's bedroom. He spots her phone sitting innocently on her dresser, and anxiously types in the passcode. 

Her room is small, barely enough space for her queen-sized mattress and the dresser. It's so cramped, the backs of Dean's legs are pressed into the bed – he has no space to walk or move anywhere. He supposes the only upside of the room is the privacy, it's small, cobwebby window certainly isn't the high point. But whatever, she's made it her own. The walls are covered with posters from video games and dozens of movies, and a thousand plastic figurines are set up on shelves around the room; her bedspread has Legolas on it. He's gotta admit, it's a pretty damn sweet bedspread. 

He scrolls through her contact list, confused at first, but then he remembers she called the man Clarence, and he's able to text himself Cas's phone number. He deletes the message from the phone so she won't see what he did, and then he dashes back into the living room. 

Plopping onto his bed, he tanks his phone out of his pocket and sees the text. He saves the number, and smirks. Yeah, the guy said no. Twice. But Dean's not gonna give up that easily. 

—

"I just... I can't believe he did this..." Charlie sighs into Dorothy's shoulder.

"I know, hun, I know..." She rubs the redhead's back soothingly. "Did you ever think that maybe... He needs help? He could talk to someone, a professional."

"He would never agree to it."

"He might..."

"No," Charlie says, positive. She sits up the park bench, cold air making her shiver. She'd called her girlfriend the second she got out of her house, this place was their halfway point; the place they meet whenever either of them has an emergency.

"I know him, Dory, he won't talk to anyone. He won't even tell me. I know something's wrong, something huge! But I don't know what it is."

"You told me his family isn't the best."

"They're not," She confirms, staring off to the baseball filed in the distance. The girls are sitting with their backs to the armrests, legs inbetween them. "When Dean told his father he was gay, he got kicked out. And his mom tries to reach out to him, but I think Dean doesn't forgive her because she's never stood up against his dad about anything..."

Dorothy nods, understanding. She rubs her hands up and down Charlies arms, "What about his brother?"

"Dean's brother is great. Sam is great. But I think maybe they had a fight or something, like they had a huge falling out with each other..."

"What happened?"

"I don't know. They haven't talked in a while, I think. And whenever I bring Sam up Dean freaks out."

Birds tweet loudly in the trees surrounding their kind of gross, green bench. A few squirrels chase each other around, and some kid falls on the playground and starts crying. 

"I love him," Charlie says suddenly.

"I know."

"But if he's going to do this to himself... I don't think I can be around him much longer."

Dorothy gives her a shocked look, "What? Charlie –"

"I mean it. He's driving me crazy. I'm not saying I'll quit my job or never speak to him, I just mean I can't deal with the constant worry. The constant drama! I can't sleep some nights because I'm waiting for him to come home, and I'm afraid that when he doesn't something bad has happened!" She's shaking, and falling back into her lover's embrace. "Now something has... And I don't think he's trying to get better..."

"Charlie, listen to me..." Dorothy soothes, holding her cheeks in her palms. "Dean needs you now more than ever. I told you about my past... If you move out, I promise you it's only going to get worse for him..." She sighs, "I know it's not up to you what he's does, but right now you're the only person he has to come back to; the only one he has to stick around for. If you're gone, he can just lose himself."

Tears drip off Charlie's nose, she sniffs. "It hurts so much to see him like this."

"Then imagine how he must be feeling."

Dorothy is right. Of course she is. Charlie has to look out for Dean, she is all he has.

—

Castiel parks his crappy car in front of some weird old house, hardly aware of his own actions. He can barely breathe, he's freaking out. Dean very obviously wanted something to happen between them, but he doesn't seem to get that Cas _can't._ He still loves Meg, he can't just 'move on', he misses her too much. She was everything that held him together, and as long as he holds onto her, she still will. The second he lets go, the broken pieces of his heart will scatter in the wind and he will be lost for good. 

He trudges through the muddy grass of a cemetery, leafless trees spot the vast field, and hundreds of headstones stake claim to a patch of ground. Cas has gone here several times to her grave. He'll just sit in front of it for hours and read a book aloud, or do school work. On weekends he tells Meg stories about his life, but right now he needs to put out all of his emotions and thoughts. 

"Meg," Cas whispers to her headstone. She's not buried in a coffin six feet below, she's in a canister, burned to ash. He had it buried anyway, almost specifically for the purpose of doing this. "Meg I need you."

He sighs, plopping into the wet grass without caring. He is exhausted all of a sudden, and he leans his head back to rest where he might imagine her's would. 

"Meg there's this guy. This screwed up dude with piercings and tattoos and... He's like you Meg..." Cas wimpers, tears leaking out and dripping down by his ears into the earth. "He does drugs. And he just got out of the hospital... I see him sometimes at the skatepark. And then one day we smashed into eachother and he just asked me out... Just like that..."

"And then I met his friend accidentally, and I slept in his bed without him there and —" He suddenly giggles, realising how ridiculous he sounds. Jesus. What's he think is going on? The universe is bringing them together? He doesn't believe in destiny. Or fate. Life is life; nothing more, nothing less. 

"God, Meg... I love you. I miss you. Remember when we talked about getting a third partner last year? Have a polyamorous thing? Sometimes I wonder if that would've made losing you easier... But I think maybe it would have been worse."

He flips over onto his stomach, craning his neck up to read her engraved name on the dark marble. 

"Dammit, Meg. Why'd you have to die?"

He collapses, cheek in damp cluster of weeds. The soil smells rich and fertile in his nose, the cold of the ground seeping into his bones and making him shiver. Clenching his jaw doesn't help relieve the shakes. 

"What am I supposed to do?"

A bell rings in the far distance, and Cas hears an old woman shout,  _"You got this, my sweet angel boy! You got this. C'mon, you can do it! ... Careful now... Off you go!"_

Another bell toll, a laugh of a small child, and the muffled sound of a bike being peddled over grass. Castiel sits up, scanning the cemetery. He sees a grandmother and little boy in the graveless portion, playing around and having fun. It can't be a coincidence – what the woman said – it was too perfect of an answer to Cas's question to be. He doesn't believe in signs from the Heavens though, so it had to be. Right?

At long last the cold sad man gets up and leaves the graveyard. He's home soon, and then he's getting ready for work and going out once more. He's not ready to delve back into the pattern of a basic life, but maybe that's the only way he can stop thinking about her.

And about  _him._

_—_

"Hey Dean," Greets Jo, a spunky blond tattoo artist, as Dean enters her and her mother's shop.

"Heya Jo," He beams. They exchange hugs, and he sits down in the customer seat. 

She quirks an eyebrow, "You want something today?"

"Yeah."

"If you tell me you want the Millenium Falcon destroying the USS Enterprise one more time I might –" 

"No. No. Nothing like that," Dean waves away her sarcastic comment. "No I actually got something this time. I feel... Really good about it actually."

Jo leans back, taking him seriously. She pulls out her sketchbook to take notes, "Hit me with it."

"Alright, so you know this patch on my arm?" Dean rolls up his sleeve and taps a bare area of his forearm he'd been saving for something special. "I want it broken up, like it's being shattered. Using blacks and water-colour highlights. Then in it, sort of... Behind the cracks like their being kept in a cage... I want the phrase 'Always Keep Fighting'."

Jo's hand flies across the page, drawing something no rough out. She bites her lip in concentration, nodding and squinting as she creates a couple possibilities. "What colours you thinking?"

"Sunset orange, pink, purple. Sunsetty; if that makes sense at all."

"I get you. What colour for the words? Any particular font you want?"

"Um... Something solid, maybe medieval looking. I don't know what colour..."

"Oh!" Jo swings her head up, eyes shining. "I know just the thing! Hang out here, I'll be right back!" She jumps up and runs off through the store. His heart is thrumming with the thrill of some new ink, with a particularly important message for himself laced into it. He takes his phone out, planning to look up some fonts, but when he opens Google and the default news page pops up, his mouth falls open.

_Holy shit._

Davd Bowie – his idol, his hero, his favourite artist, his private encourager – is dead. He died last night, at age 69, from cancer. A secret battle that he lost, but not before releasing his twenty-fifth album and a truly mesmerising music video. Dean can't believe it. It's surreal. He's still gaping when Jo comes back, and he slowly lifts his gaze to her's in shock.

"Jo..."

"Are you okay?" She asks, alarmed at his expression.

"David Bowie... He – he –"

She frowns, nodding in aknowledgment. "I know, I know. It's crazy isn't it? How quickly something like that can happen."

He nods, an uncanny anger boiling in his gut. 

"Hey..." Jo rests her soft fingers on his wrist. "You wanna come back later, Dean? I'm sorry... I know he was an important person to you."

"Yeah... He was... I think –" He blinks a few times, then says confidently. "I want to do this still, even more than before."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. For Ziggy, I'll show him how I don't plan to ever give up... I'll always keep fighting."

An hour later, the designs are finalised, and Dean's sitting in what feel like a dentist chair, reclined with his under arm facing upwards to be drilled into with swirling colours and art. Jo pulls on gloves, tying back her hair and putting on some special glasses. She's fully prepped him by cleansing his arm like three times with anti-bacterial alchohol and ensuring his comfort. She's one of the most talented and fastest-working artitsts he's ever met, and she's brilliant at her job. 

"You sure want this?" She checks for the thousandth time.

"Yes, Jo, Christ. I want it."

"Okay," She repents, scooters no over on her rolling stool. She picks up her needle, prepares the inks and cloths, and soon the device is buzzing and pressing into Dean's skin.

Its burns only a little, he's used to the sensation by now, and the pain is nothing that he hasn't  expierenced before. As Jo traces the design onto him, she hums and mumbles complaints about her mom. Dean's eyes are shut, he trying to close out the world and the pain, both physical and emotional, it's brought I him the past few days. He's well aware most of it is his own fault, he'd been an idiot to drink and shoot up. Probably an idiot to either of those things ever at all.

"You know..." Jo says louder, clearly meaning for him to listen up. "Charlie called me yesterday. She said you went missing?"

Dean sighs.

"Don't give me that crap, you can either tell me, or tell my mom. She'd be all over your ass, so best fess up to me."

This is true. Ellen Harvwlle is not someone you can get with bullshitting too. She can read people, smell out a liar a mile away, and fiercely protective of her family. She'd sort of become like a monther to Dean after some rough nights last year when he stumbled into the parlour half-drunk and begging for some crazy-ass tattoo. Both times she refused him service, instead forcing him into a back room to sober up and share all his crap. It's nuts how close he is to the two women, by chance they had come to into his life. Or maybe, he'd just crashed into their's.

"I had to go to the hospital. I had drank a lot, and... Used some drugs; not very fun."

Jo suddenly stops her work, her pen shutting off as she sits back. Dean glances at her. "What?"

"What happened?"

"Nothing. I was just being stupid."

" _Dean."_

She gives him a stubborn look, and he knows he has to admit what happened. The artist crosses her arms, raises her eybrows, and nods her head to pointedly encourage him. 

"My mom wants me to go back home for a few days..." He tongues his lip piercings. "My dad's drinking a lot these days, like, too much. He's not making it to work –" He lifts the arm up that's not getting tattooed and rubs down his face. "In a week and a bit, it will have been year since..."

"Since?" Jo pushes, her voice gentle.

_"Since."_

Understanding washes over her, and her body slumps, "Oh. Oh," She deadpans, picking up her tools again and starting on his arm once more. "I see."

"Yeah."

"And my dad hates me. He hates that I'm gay, how I look, and he blames me for what happened."

"Don't you dare listen to him. It wasn't you fault."

"Ha," Dean scoffs. "Yeah. You don't know him like I do."

Jo pauses again, "What that's suppose to mean? It doesn't matter whether I know him or not, I know you. And you blame yourself for shit you shouldn't all the time. It's your worst quality."

Dean takes the chance to turn the mood lighter, "Really? What's my best?" He says it flirtatiously.

"Shut up," She smacks at his head, smiling and then not. "Don't make me talk to my mom. I will if I have to."

Dean chuckles, "Ha, okie dokie."

Rolling her eyes, Jo starts on the final details of his art. 

—

Cas gets the text late at night, as he's on his way home from work.

It startles him, as the number is unfamiliar... And yet, he's near positive about who it's from.

_Unknown Number —_

_Hey, thank you for looking   out for Charlie. I appreciate it. Really. Thx Cas_ _._

_–_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the late update! 
> 
> But if you're interested check out my short-story fic I'm writing about human!Cas and a very in love Dean (called Dreams are Realities in Waiting). They also are super cute drinks in it. 
> 
> I apologise for typos in this update btw!


	8. Maybe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Where have I been you may ask? The answer is nowhere, I've just been a lazy bean. Whoops.
> 
> WARNING: Major panic attack.

A WEIRD THOUGHT had crossed Cas's mind that morning in the shower. As of now, he is standing at the front door of his apartment, camera slung around his neck, and tapping his thigh anxiously. He glances at his cat, Masters, frowning. 

"You know," He begins to tell her. "The only difference between merchandise and memorabilia is that you can only have memorabilia when you're dead."

His cat tilts her head, then trots away to her food bowl. Completely ignoring him as usual.  _He's_ ignoring something too. A nagging little idea in the back of his head that keeps poking at his stomach and hitching his breath with the temptation of it. Cas can't get the text message out of his head. He knows who it was from, and who they are vaguely.  _Vaguely,_ being the key word there. He doesn't know Dean. He just knows  _of_ him and that Dean is interested in Cas. Why, the photographer had no idea, but that's not the issue right now. The issue is the pang in his gut everytime he's turned the man down. The issue is fear of attachment. The issue is that he _already is_ attached. 

He steps out his front door, and twenty minutes later he resurfaces to the conscious world at the skate park. There's a mug in his hand filled with hot coffee. The shop he always goes to trusts him enough to borrow a real cup and return it the next morning. Cas settles on the bench facing the concrete slopes, eyeing the dangerous half-pipes and a single guy roller-blading up and down them. His camera bumps against his chest, and he's careful to not spill his drink on it. He's never quite got the appeal of pushing yourself around on flat piece of wood; thinks maybe it's like surf-boarding for inlanders. Who knows? What he does know, is that if he gets some decent shots of the dude's skates in the air, or of a particular majestic pose, he could potentially sell them to the local skate store for decoration. Or maybe even just display his work inside for a few weeks. 

He's been looking for ways to make a living on his photography, his job at the local  _Panda Express_ really isn't cutting it for him. His dream is to take photos for artistic purposes only; to sell his photos and sell enough he can live on them. But that's not the era he's living in. He has to have a 'real job' in order to survive. Sometimes following your dream means you can't live a life, and frankly, Cas would like to live. 

Usually.

He crouches down on one knee, propping his camera up with one hand, and taking aim at the person skating. He lowers the aperture, adjusting the old camera for the best turn out possible. The cloudy weather is never very helpful, but regardless he's out here and doing it because only practice makes perfect. He squints through the camera, waiting for the moment when the skates lift off the concrete for just a few seconds. The wheels come up, and Cas snaps three photos. He quickly shift his angle to focus on the opposite side, and when the rollerskates zip up he takes three more. It's a lot of film to use up on a single shot, but it will hopefully be worth it. In this day and age, his prints have to be truly magnificent to be given any thought. Black and white always seems to be under appreciated, or overused. 

Castiel sips the last of coffee, then gathers himself to his full height to wind his way through the concrete structures. He takes a few pictures of graffiti at different angles, and some of cigarette butts alongside ashes of what he presumes is weed. He walks past the skatepark down the path that leads to the basketball court. It's an ugly place, with stained grey ground and browning, shredding nets as the hoops. Cas loses interest in everything the instant he sees a huge black square painted on the cement. 

He hadn't even thought about where he was going, it hadn't occurred to him he would end up  _here._

Last month, somebody had gotten shot here. He'd seen it on the news, in the papers. People spoke about it in hushed voices at every cafè and store he went in. The constant chatter about such a tragedy had given Cas major anxiety. He felt like the streets were no longer safe, he went as far as to buy a taser and keep it in his camera bag. A rumour started among the town that there had been so much of the victim's blood it had stained the ground, and the police had to paint over the red that couldn't be washed out. And now Cas is right at the crime scene. He feels himself shaking, his teeth chattering. 

It isn't because of the cold breeze.

Pressing his palms to his face, he crouches down.  _He doesn't want to be here. So much death. The hidden blood beneath his feet. The idea of the victim's ghost haunting the basketball court waiting to avenge herself._

The killer still hasn't been caught, though the police suspect it's a major drug lord who migrated here from Seattle after many of his customers were taken in and questioned. They call him Alistair. Cas's town has been known for it's significant lack of crime and arrests, which is why everyone here thought the murder was such a huge deal. 

Cas stands slowly, his whole body aching without reason. He pointedly directs his gaze at the sky, avoiding looking at the ground – avoiding the evidence that what happened was real. Taking deep breaths helps marginally, but at least he's not shaking anymore. Leaving the court as fast as he can, he approaches the full pipe, passing through it and wrinkling his nose at the scent of smoke. He tries to not think about bumping into Dean here. He tries not to think about what he  _wants._ Getting back to the bench with his empty mug, he  decides it's time to leave. He wishes he hadn't seen the black square. 

The photographer is so distracted as he begins leaving he doesn't see the man on a skateboard coming right to him. He completely misses the moment when the man hops off his board and meanders along on foot beside Cas. He is totally  _blind_ to when the guy bumps shoulders with him. When the dude stops at the corner before Cas crosses the street, a hand catches his elbow.

"Hey! Watch out, man. You'll get hit."

"What?" Cas asks in a daze, only now realising his company. Or maybe he'd known the whole time who was there, and had chosen to ignore them.

"I knew you were spacing out, but... Are you okay?"

"Dean?"

Dean offers a concerned smile, "Yeah. I've been right next to you the last few minutes, I thought you were just being difficult."

"You have been?"

"Are you okay?"

"Yes," Cas says much too quickly. "What are you doing here?" His senses are at last catching up, and he knows he has to go home. He has to go home  _now,_ before he freaks out or breaks down. 

"I was just coming to skate," Dean lifts his board as proof. "And then I saw you."

Dean stares as if waiting for an explanation from Cas. 

"I have to go home," Cas announces.

Dean raises his brows, taken aback by the force behind the words. "Right, okay. Can I...walk you?"

"No!" Cas shouts too loudly. Oh god, he can  _feel it coming. He's going to have a melt down right now. He can't keep it in._ The panic of being outside, the fear of a killer on the loose, the sadness about Meg – all washing over him at once. He can't keep it in. "No! I'm FINE. Please, please just go!" He's yelling without meaning to, his hands suddenly gripping Dean's sweater stopping him from doing as Cas demanded.

"Cas! Hey, hey calm down. Come here..." Dean says desperately, beginning to wrap his arms around Cas. 

"I don't WANT to calm down! I WANT to go  _home!"_

Cas can't see anything behind his veil of tears, he is going nuts, he knows, he just can't  _feel it._ It seems like his life is happening to someone else. This isn't him! He's not like this! He doesn't flip out in public over nothing! He's got to look utterly  _mental_ right now. Some psycho on the side of the road screaming about a black square. There's something strong and hard all around him now, his face pressed against something smelling of cologne. He's trapped! He stuck and he's drowning, no, _being_ drowned! He fights against the embrace, pushing away, some gurgled phrase slipping out of his mouth. One of the arms, he knows what they are now, releases him, yet he still can't escape. He thinks someone is talking. He's forgotten who he was with. 

At some point Cas falls forward, collapsing entirely into the person. He's caught, and lowered gently to rest on the other. Grass is prickling at his ankles. He's shuddering with every breath. Unable to see or converse, all he can do is think  _maybe. Maybe I can dissapear right now. Maybe these are my last moments. Maybe maybe maybe maybe..._

"C'mon... Cas, I'm gonna need you to stand up..." A deep gentle voice whispers in his hears. Cas obeys, eyes still squeezed shut. He's guided somewhere, sat down in a cramped space. A warm body is next to him and he slouches into it. He can't bring himself to care. 

—

Dean finds it unfortunately ironic how the tables are turned. Cas had been the man worrying over a stranger, and now Dean is doing to same for him. Castiel is lying on Dean's bed, curled up in a ball on his side. Cas had melted down entirely, sobbing and shouting nonsense about squares and cats. Dean hadn't known what to do, who to call, or what to say. He went for his best instinct, which was too hold onto Cas as tightly as he could until the moment passed, only the moment hadn't been passing. 

It was familiar, what was happening to Cas had happened to Dean before. He called Charlie the second he could hold Cas's weight with only one arm. She sounded annoyed at first, but the second she understood what Dean was blurting out she hopped in her yellow Bug and drove to pick them both up. She cooed and frowned and cried a little when she saw Cas so completely undone. It was scary, if Dean was being honest, when Cas started yelling at him. The guy had seemed so  _furious,_ so livid that Dean sort of wanted to run away. No matter how much he may have wanted to, he couldn't. He had to help this stranger. 

_Strangers._

That doesn't decribe their relationship at all. He feels like he knows Cas. Like somehow they're connected. 

Dean is staring at Cas from his spot in the kitchen counter where he's drinking a beer and eating some triscuits. Guilt sloshes around in his stomach for acting so unaffected and disinterested by the events, but he's hungry. So he continues to eat. Dean allows himself to wonder what made Cas freak out. He ponders the idea that maybe they're more similar than he can possibly know. Though, he must admit, Castiel doesn't seem like a drinker or a druggie, so what could be wrong with him? Dean is sporting boy-scout badges from both those columns, and also from the "kicked out of home", "hated by dad", and "impossible to love" categories. 

Maybe Cas got fired from a job or someone he knew died. Maybe Cas has always been mentally unstable. Maybe this was the first time something like this had happened. Maybe Cas was pretending to be okay for a long time and at last all pain had caught up to him. 

Maybe Dean could help him. Only, Dean can't even help himself lately.

Maybe... Maybe they could help each other.  

There's a groan from Dean's bed, and he immediately springs up. He hurries around the counter and to the bed. 

"Dean?" Cas mumbles, squinting.

"Heya Cas, how you feelin'?"

"Where am I?"

"Um, you're in my bed... Again," Dean adds the last remark to make the other smile. It doesn't work. "Do you remember what..."

"Yes..." Cas moans, rolling onto his back and running his hands over his face. His fingers yank at his hair, pulling longer, curled bits out into the open to cover Dean's pillow. "I'm so sorry."

"Don't worry about it. We've all been there."

Cas huffs like he doesn't believe him.

"Really, dude. This world gets to be too much for everyone at some point or another. We all fake like we can handle it, and then... Well then we snap and lash out. Some gamble, some break hearts... I drink and smoke. You... You take it out on yourself."

Cas tilts his head to look at him, and sighs, "Maybe."

"Has this happened before?" Dean  probes carefully.

"No. But it was about time."

"Do you have anyone I should be calling?" 

"Yes," Cas says at once, and then a dark expression crosses his face. "No, I meant no. Sorry. Everything is all... Jumbled."

Dean frowns, "I'm going to get you some water. Want any aspirin?"

The man on Dean's bed nods, his hands noticeably clenching in the bed sheets. Dean bites his lip nervously, pinching his piercing in a slightly painful way. He collects a few red pills from the bathroom, and then brings an already-poured glass to Cas. The guy accepts the items, downing them both quickly. 

"You want more?" Dean asks, taking back the cup.

"No thank you," Cas replies. He shifts on the bed to lean against the wall. 

"Do you want me to take you home?"

There's a pause. 

"Do you want me to leave?"

Dean blinks, "Um, no. You're welcome to stay as long as you need. I just thought you might want be somewhere you're used to."

"Well, it's not like I've never slept in your bed before."

Dean swears Cas just smirked at him. He laughs a little, "True – true. Do you like it there?"

Cas peeks up through his eyelashes.  _Holy crap, Cas is hot all mussed and tired,_ Dean can't help but think. He has to be doing this on purpose, winding Dean up like this. 

"Yes I do like it here," Cas rumbles. "I'd like it better if I wasn't alone..."

Air hisses out between Dean's teeth. "Cas... What are you doing?" Dean would like to go over there and straddle the man, kiss the man into the mattress and remove his clothes piece by piece and tease him as much as Dean feels teased right now... Something is off though, something's not quite right here. 

"I want you," Cas deadpans. "Don't you want me?"

"Cas I don't think you know what you're talking about. You need to rest," Dean reasons. "If... If you feel better later, sure, I'd love to come over there with you. But right now..."

Dean stops suddenly, because Cas is covering his face and he's shaking again. 

"I'm sorry," The sobbing man wimpers. "I don't know what I'm saying. I feel so fucked up... I can't... I just want to  _feel something."_

Cas falls sidways to lye back down, his knees folding up to his chest. "I'm sorry. Don't listen to me. But please..." He sniffs. "Don't leave me alone. I'm afraid... What I might do...stay... Please."

The pure simplicity of the request burns into Dean, and he knows what he has to do. He crawls up into the bed, the weight of him making it dip, and he drops himself between the wall and Cas. Carefully, not wanting to frighten the person he feels solely responsible for, he pushes an arm beneath the other man. He pulls Cas into chest, spooning him. Using his free arm, he finds a blanket to cover them both, and he buries his nose in Cas's hair. 

"I got you."

One of Castiel's hands is pinching at his sleeve, and his body is steady now. 

"Can I buy you coffee?"

Dean giggles a little into the soft, dark locks at his lips. 

"Maybe," He mumbles. 

"Maybe," Cas repeats. 

"Maybe."

 

 —

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on Instagram @poughkeepsie_angel, Twitter & Snapchat @funkytownangel, and Tumblr @theimpossibleimpala. 
> 
> Toodles.


End file.
